


A Tale of Red

by spectreshepard



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Experimental Style, Gen, colours. lots of colours.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4885633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rion Lavellan: deaf city-elf mage, refugee, Grey Warden, and now -- Inquisitor. </p>
<p>Cullen Rutherford: an old enemy-turned-friend.</p>
<p>Rion's used to the quiet, he lost his hearing in an Alienage riot years ago, but this quiet is different. The Anchor is starting to play its own song, a song that he can hear, a song in green. Somewhere along the line, green starts to hurt. Red is better, red is familiar - is it so wrong to listen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Red

**Author's Note:**

> a 2am trainwreck in which I take my own disability and poke and prod at the way I "listen", turns out there's lots of colours involved.

He slams the door shut, screams as the Anchor hits the solid surface and buckles to the ground in one fell swoop. He feels the reverb of the door’s echo, listens to the ghost whispers passing by his ears, veiling words he cannot hear beyond the door. Too many eyes in the hall, too many voices with no sound. It was jarring, almost as much as the Anchor stung. Rion spares a glance at the serpentine scar, glaring back at him. Green was never his colour, he thinks wrily, allowing himself a grim smile at his own musings.

Letting out a breath, he resolves to pulling himself up with his good hand, ignoring how his skin burns _(verdant and lush, Dalish forest)_ from Anchor to jaw, _(cooling, the sounds of rippling brook and coursing stream)_ the way it pulls at every movement, _(edge of the wild where green spills into red, blood of the Emerald Knights)_ every slight interaction with his magic, the Fade - everything.

A different kind of green bubbles up in his chest when he reaches his balcony and sees the wicked laughter of Elves below, speaking in their shared tongue, a language he barely knows from afar. Envy was never a favourable friend, and it makes an even worse acquaintance, Rion thinks.

Resting both hands on the balcony’s edge, he takes a moment to himself. His magic pulls at his veins, lyrium veins, electric and potent, bright blue against the Anchor. He doesn’t feel pride, nor does he welcome the sight. He feels… angry. It burns to know what power he has, how dangerous he could be.

For a moment, longer than a moment, he wishes they were red.

Green flares up again, loudly, incessantly demanding the attention of its victim. Rion bites back a shout, instinctively reaching to clutch his hand. It hurts. It hurts more than the careless elvhen words spoken below, out of reach. It especially hurts more than his lyrium veins.

Part of him wants to reach for the knife at his waist, carve the Anchor out himself. Another part wishes to cut the Anchor away from him entirely. A smaller voice tells him _No_.

A loud, louder voice reverberates through his room and hits his chest, balcony doors slamming open. It’s red, and gold. Cullen. Cullen, but angry. More red than gold.

“Cullen!” Rion finds his voice in the midst of all his self-reflection, it’s bold amongst the green, the blue. The red. Brighter than the rest.

“What are you doing?” He sees Cullen’s words before the echoes reach him, and Rion frowns at the knife in his hand, curling his fingers around the leather grip tighter. Glancing back up, he shrugs and drops the blade, shaking his head.

“It hurts. It’s part of me that needs to go.” Rion offers simply, watching the man’s face carefully. He sees his eyes narrow - _thought_ \- and then a slight quirk of the lip - _he doesn’t know what to say_ \- and finally, his gaze softens subtly, eyes rising - he _understands_.

“Just- I don’t want to- Maker! I’ve been trying to find you, and I walk in here and you’re standing there with a- _Rion_.” Cullen’s own explanation is cut short as Rion cries out suddenly, green clutched to his chest as he crumples uselessly to the ground.

“S’okay, just-” The mark seems to set itself aflame, and Rion can’t speak. Cullen’s words are voiceless, formless when Rion can’t see them. The pain spreads faster now, beating down his ribcage, beating louder than his lyrium veins can pulse, louder louder than his own heart can sustain him. Surely, it won’t be long now-

“Ri, sit _down_ , Maker’s sake!” Cullen pushes the elf to sit, gently. He looks concerned, Rion notices the furrow of his brow, the familiar burnish of his bright eyes. He’s reminded of a Templar who pulled him from Knight-Commander Greagoir’s clutches, and he can’t help but laugh.

“I’m startin’ to think you should’ve just let Greagor have me, Rutherford.” Rion lets the Anchor fall to the ground as the green begins to calm, the pain receding. Cullen looks taken aback for a moment, almost offended, but his shoulders relax and he sits back slightly, and Rion nods once in unspoken words between old friends. (“I’m fine.”) (“Of course you are, but I’ll stop fussing.”)

“Now, why would I do that?” Cullen drops the Commander act as easily as he puts it on (it’s the coat).

“Because… all of this!” Rion gestures to his hand, and to the vague grandeur of Skyhold all around them. He’s breathless, and more than a little afraid. Cullen waits for Rion to look at him before he speaks again.

“You don’t think you should be..? You don’t want to be the Inquisitor?” Cullen offers, quiet as the clouds above. Quiet as anything, really.

“Who would?” Rion retorts, perhaps a little sharper than he intended. Shaking his head, he apologizes silently and starts again.

“I just feel like…”

“What?” Cullen pushes, his stubbornness kicking in. Old habits, Rion supposes.

“Like you should’ve let Greagoir… Like Greagoir should’ve called the Rite of Tranquility and be done with it, years ago.”

“You- Tranquil?” Cullen blinks, the words not quite settling in the right places. Rion just looks at him blankly, with nothing more to say.

There’s a silence between them that stretches on, longer than Rion would like. Longer than he suspects Cullen would like. Rion won’t speak, though. He’s said his own piece. Silence doesn’t bother Rion, he’s used to it, of course. Silence shouldn’t bother Rion. But it does. This one does. Because it’s now crawling under his skin, tentatively seeking a way out. Cullen’s not looking at him, Rion checks. He’s staring at the ground, obviously deep in thought. The furrowed brow, the pursed lips, the slight darkening of the eyes - definitely thinking. So he waits, and waits, and waits a little longer.

“No.” Rion catches the word, the echo of it, the reverb hits his ears like a ghost. He looks at the man, who simply shakes his head and repeats the same word. He looks unfazed, or he would, if it weren’t for the slight inkling of fear that’s snaking its way into his clenched fists. Cold, goosebumps. Guilt? That wasn’t what Rion wanted.

“Why not?” Rion’s just as stubborn.

“ _Why not_?” Cullen repeats, incredulous. His eyes widen for a second as his mouth struggles to form words, words that Rion could understand (not sounds - never sounds, he says to himself).

“Because… shit.” Cullen doesn’t curse much. Rion notches a little tick into his mental journal of what does.

“Because it’s.. it’s wrong. I never thought of it as anything more than an alternative, an option for those who didn’t want- who couldn’t take their Harrowing. It wasn’t until Kirkwall that I saw its use extended. I- At the time, to me, it seemed… harsh, but not without due cause.” Rion watches every word.

“And then I saw them in the streets, I saw them working, I saw these minds that were… they were brilliant, and we- Templars _mutilated_ them. I see that now. I didn’t then.”

“And I see you now. I see my friend.” Cullen fixes his gaze, a weight to his words that wasn’t there before. “Perhaps it is selfish of me to only see that now. But I didn’t then.”

Rion feels some sort of relief, not entirely, but some. It’s enough. Cullen looks apprehensive, awaiting a response. Rion decides to give him one, in the way of very old friends.

“You soppy _git_. Help me up.” Rion reaches up with his good hand as Cullen stands, looking mildly affronted. He takes Rion’s wrist and pulls him up, laughing incredulously.

“I pour my heart out to you, and _this_ is what I get? Thank you. Really reaffirming my choice in friends.”

“Alright. Ma melava halani. Ma serannas, lethallin.” Rion offers sincerely, a small part of him revelling in glee that Cullen wouldn’t understand a word.

“I- Thank you?” Cullen wonders out loud, and Rion grins, a firm nod.

“Well done, you’re halfway there.” He huffs out a laugh, and nudges the man’s shoulder as he passes. Cullen shakes his head in disbelief and (very) mild amusement as he turns to follow, falling into easy footsteps with an old friend.

**Author's Note:**

> *Ma melava halani. Ma serannas, lethallin → "You helped me. Thank you, my friend."


End file.
